The Large Man Chronicles

I’m sitting in my favorite writing chair, nursing my last bottle of Troeg’s Nugget Nectar, while trying to think of a cute way to answer the handful of questions that have come across my email, Facebook page, and voicemail over the last few weeks. They all sound kinda like, “Where have you been, Large Man?” “Hey Large Man, haven’t heard from you in a while, is everything OK?” “Dude, what’s your f-ing problem?”

These are simple and logical questions, and the “simple and logical” answers are:

1) I’ve been right here, same as always. (Not true)

2) Everything is fine, just feeling quiet these days. (Not true either)

And 3) I don’t have a problem! What’s your f-ing problem? Buttface!

That last reply is what I would normally use, but that’s the old me…I’m not like that anymore. These days I’m trying to be all about the light. Being good, and promoting goodness.

The honest answer to those questions is that I’ve sort of been in a funk, and it seems wiser and better to be in hiding; hiding from headlines, hiding from confrontation, and hiding from the world.

Children being shot in their schools, teenage girls getting drunk and then getting molested, their friends take photos of the crime, send it out for the world to see, and then a socially abused teenage girl takes her own life. And THEN the dumbass kids who perpetrated the crime, and the sociopathic idiots who recorded the little adventure are all convicted of the crimes they most assuredly committed, and the shockwave of ruined, young lives seems to have no end.

It’s a great big “Shit Sundae” that we eat for dessert while we watch the evening news (entertainment) channels, right after we chow down our dinner that’s killing us all anyway because our food is chock full of processed chemicals, sugar, and genetically modified corn products. And for our “cherry on top”, we get some radical kids setting off bombs at a sporting event. Horrendous and hideous are becoming all too normal and the social and general media are 100% sure that they need to convince us all as to how we should feel about it; they need to offer their slant. They tell us what we should do about it, and what political leaders (Seen any?) should do about it.

So yeah, I haven’t had a lot to say these days. I’m in a general state of bummedoutness. I’m exhausted. It’s heartbreaking. It leaves me feeling rather “un-Large”. It’s hard to tell you stories about strippers & beer while we all walk through these puddles of blood.

But I have to change. It’s about the light.

In my younger years,(a couple of weeks ago) I would simply get angry over these things. For most of my life I have been a “FUCK YOU” kind of guy. Blow up bombs in a public place? Fuck YOU! Face a firing squad and die you inhuman piece of shit! Walk into an elementary school and shoot up a bunch of innocent children and then turn the gun on yourself? YOU COWARD! FUCK YOU! Burn in hell for eternity – times two. Anger always seemed to be my best medicine for troubled times, or at least it was the first medicine applied.

Not so much, these days. “Fuck you” doesn’t work for me anymore. The 53 year old Large Man doesn’t become angered in the face of tragedy. I just become sad. I think I should probably become a little bit afraid, but I know way too many people who have wasted years of this very short life being afraid (and angry). I used to play that way too…not so much these days. Fear is as crippling as anger; it’s just a different disease.

I’m only sure of one thing, and that one thing is: I just don’t know.

I’ve shared this sentiment with you before; when fried chicken sandwiches faced off against consensual adults with matching nasties bonking each other, possibly even marrying each other was an issue that was so critical to the cradle of our civilization, we shut down shopping centers in protests of support for both sides. The debate isn’t over, but we’ve processed a buttload of chicken since then.

I don’t know. I don’t know, and I haven’t met anyone else who convinces me that he or she knows either. How are we going to protect our kids? How are we going to feel safe? I don’t know.

I believe in the right to bear arms. I believe in an armed citizenry. I don’t know that we need assault weapons in the general public, but on the other hand…I know firsthand of a Missouri farmer who saved his family when his house was invaded by the proprietors of a meth lab that was doing business on the border of his property. It is believed that these entrepreneurs invaded the home to harm the man and his family for reporting them to the police. The farmer defended his home with an AR-14 until help arrived. A pump action shotgun would not have accomplished the job. This is awful. I don’t remember the particulars or the death toll, and I don’t care; farmer and family ended up safe and at least physically unharmed, the bad guys were either killed or put away. I support the farmer’s 2^nd amendment right.

If I had a child at Sandy Hook, my position on gun control and the interpretation of our 2^nd amendment would most likely be very different.

Most people probably know exactly where they come down on all the critical social issues of our time, if you look at Facebook and Twitter, or Fox and MSNBC, it seems that way. Whether it’s gay marriage, gun control, abortion, the war on terror, or global warming, I envy those with the strong opinions; I imagine there is genuine peace that comes with the knowing. I will never know that peace, and I’m not judging here…I’m dead serious. I wish I knew; I could use a good night’s sleep.

But with all that I don’t know, there are a few things that I would bet on. I bet that the most passionate supporter of the free and unencumbered exchange of firearms between private citizens might rethink the whole background check thing if they had to spend the rest of their gun totin’ life in a wheelchair with a colostomy bag strapped to the side because they were a victim of a gunshot wound delivered by a recently discharged resident of a state mental hospital.

I bet Scooter the gun hater, the dude who thinks we need to make our homes and our streets gun free, might rethink that stance if the gun owning next door neighbor chased off a would be rapist from entering Scooter’s home while his teenage girl was there alone.

I might be wrong. Maybe those who feel strong on both sides of these issues found that one piece of truth that convinced them. Something turned on the light. I’m still looking. I’m sorry that innocent people are killed by guns, I’m not sorry that innocent people have been saved by guns. I’m not sorry that those who would strike down innocent, hardworking, God fearing people have been killed by guns. I’m not happy – at all, to see any life taken. But I’d rather see bad guys die than good guys die. It seems that lately too many good guys are dying.

I want to know, and for now, I think the only way I’m going to find out is to stop being angry and stop saying, “Fuck You”. I have read a couple of things written in social media, and op-ed stuff in print media, after the Boston Marathon bombing, that suggest we reply with love. I get it, but I’m not sure we’re there yet. In the human world, I don’t think hate understands love. BUT…on the other hand, these two assholes that committed this heinous act of hate, became hateful, I don’t think they were born that way. So if hate changed them, maybe love and understanding can change them too.

I don’t know.

I just know that I gotta give up the “Fuck You”(s). We all have to. We’re all bunking a little too close to each other these days as our world gets smaller and smaller. Fuck you just doesn’t solve anything today, probably never has.

With this one exception…

…at least for me.

The only Fuck You that is valid anymore, is the Fuck You that is used in response to people who try to scare or intimidate us.

My boss’s daughter, Elizabeth, ran in the Boston Marathon. I love this chick like she was my own daughter. She’s one of those people who can instantly spark up a room; she has the light that I want to find. I have it on good authority that the first crush my son ever experienced over a pretty girl was for his babysitter, Elizabeth. This made me very happy; it’s good to start that process with high standards.

I was driving to Indianapolis when the girl I have a crush on, (Mrs. Large Man) told me about the bombing, and as I turned on CNN radio, and started putting together the details, it was way too close to when Elizabeth could have been finishing. I called her father, told him the news so he could check on her. 20 minutes later he calls me back to say “they were OK”. THANK HEAVEN this chick and her beau are strong runners; she finished about 40 minutes ahead of the explosion. That was a miserable 20 minute wait. I can’t imagine what it was like for her dad.

But, you know what? If she wanted to run it again, if I were asked, I would encourage it. You know why?

Because…Fuck you. (Not you, dear and cherished reader; them)

FUCK…yooooooo!

You can fly planes into buildings, blow up backpacks in crowded places, and send tainted letters to high profile people, I don’t care. I won’t let you take the joy of having a hotdog and a beer at a ballpark, or shopping at a mall the week before Christmas, or flying to Florida to take in the sun, away from me or my family.

Fuck you.

I would rather be free than safe. I can’t live in fear. I WON’T live in fear. I will do everything in my power to teach my kids not to live that way either. Will I live smart? Sure. Cautious? Of course!

Fearful?

Fuck you.

I’m gonna shave my head and wear a bright red golf jacket. You’ll have no problem finding me. I’ll be the Large bald man…having fun.

FUCK   YOU

WOW! That feels better. I apologize for the language, but I just talked myself into it…strippers & beer next time, or at least something fun!! Let’s be the light. Thanks for reading.

I am a man who does not generally love things. I love people, and I love pets, but I don’t love possessions. It’s not that I exist on a higher plane of existential enlightenment, I don’t. I enjoy material things, the finer things, as much as your average superficial jerk. I like nice clothes, I like to sleep on nice sheets, and I like my new wristwatch…but I don’t love them. And to conclude this point, if all my possessions were gone tomorrow, I would be OK. I can walk away from just about anything, with little or no remorse.

This is always the truth, with one exception:

…that exception would be my Ice Blue 2003 Buick LeSabre Custom. I love that car. It has been a great ride. I loved the process of buying it, I loved traveling in it, and I loved owning it. I even loved the wisecracks that I got for continuing to drive it. I think it was Gandhi who said, “… even bad attention is attention”. It may have been Gandalf; it doesn’t matter…I’m a whore for attention, and I LOVE THAT CAR!

I traded it in yesterday, because like many co-dependent relationships, our friendship was becoming strained. We probably stayed together a year too long. Sometimes, when the passion is strong between two…umm…things, the relationship will burn out, and in the car’s case, the heater fan burned out too, and the windshield wipers, and so on.  But with all the flaws that accumulated over my 190,216 mile relationship with it, that vehicle was still an ice blue monument to perseverance. When I sent it off to the auction block yesterday, I realized how much that car reminded me of who I am.

I need to give you a little of the back story…

I bought the car 5 years ago, just a couple of weeks before I started my current job. I had been unemployed for the better part of 4 months, and I probably should have been unemployed longer as a result of how badly I sucked at the job I was fired from. The nice guy that I worked for didn’t go all “Donald Trump” on my ass; “YOU’RE FIRED!” to let me know my fate, he was actually very kind.

On a chilly October Monday, he discreetly asked me to step into an empty conference room and told me with a broken, stammering, and stressed voice that he was “letting me go”. The official position was that I was being dismissed because our company had a deal go south, and “we need to cut costs wherever we can.” And while his reasons were indeed factual; when you do what I do, companies don’t look at your presence as a cost. If you do what I do, and you do it well, (that’s the key) you are viewed as a revenue stream. Smart companies don’t cut revenue streams. I wasn’t let go because of cost cutting, I was fired because I set new standards for incompetency.

I made the mistake that a lot of sales people do; I thought I could sell anything. I was wrong. I knew it was a stretch when I signed up for it, and I knew I was extending myself. What I didn’t know, was how inept I could be at something. It was a learning experience, a learning experience with a company car.

So, I go home on that chilly Monday, and I tell missus Large Man that I don’t have a job, “… but don’t worry.” I tell her, “I’ll be back on my feet in no time.” She smiled at me and shook her head, and then she grabbed both of my hands and pulled me in close and gave me a consoling hug and whispered softly “My parents always said that you would eventually let us down, so I’ve been sort of expecting this day.”

“They really told you that?” I whispered back.

“DUDE, they told everybody!”

So there I was with no job, no prospects, limited talent (and fan base, apparently), and no car. At that point in my life, the only things I’d ever done with any success was to anger and disappoint people who were close to me, sell industrial supplies, and I almost never ended a sentence with a preposition. And the selling thing, I was only marginally successful at.

Fortunately, my wife was working, so there was enough money for beer and milk (we needed milk for Kahlua), both kids were in elementary school, (Heaven forbid they should find a job and contribute a little) so they were out of the way, and we had the internet. Things could have been worse. I looked for jobs on-line (got one immediately but had to wait until February to start), painted our house (done in 2 weeks), and shopped for cars. (This took a while)

I am not generally a ‘shopper’ with most of my purchases the ‘buy decision’ will take less than 10 minutes – concept to completion. Last week we bought a new chair for our living room and a new dining room ensemble, and the idea came to us as we were finishing up our lunch at Taco Bell. “Hey, let’s go look at chair for the living room.” 20 minutes later, we were doing paperwork for delivery. I bought a computer for my son last month; 15 minutes on line, two reviews, SOLD! That’s how I roll.

But, I’m not so impulsive when it comes to cars. My automobile needs consideration because it is the vessel that transports my person to revenue generating events and activity. It needs heavy research because I am not a new car buyer; the loss of equity the minute I drive that brand new machine off the lot weighs too heavily on my fiscally conservative soul. At this very moment, my palms are sweating at the thought of it…loss of equity. Also, I can’t afford to buy new because I’m so impulsive and undisciplined in every other money matter…so there you go.

So as my employment start date draws ever near, I consider the things that will be required of my new mode of transport. Of course there is safety, reliability, fuel economy, and other BS that I never really think about; I give those factors about 10 minutes of my valuable time before I start focusing on important things. I have always been a fan of leather interior, polished wooden steering wheels, nice, shiny rims, and a bitchin stereo system. I have also always enjoyed being in a car that has an abundance of cup holders, and I think power seat adjusters are simply the coolest. Because this would be a work car, I could only accept 4 door candidates; this ruled out the Corvette (amazing rims & sound systems available with that car)

I believe that I spent the entire month of January searching for cars – shopping on line, shopping in the newspapers, and visiting every dealership within a 50 mile radius of my Missouri home. I easily sat in, or drove over 100 cars, and not one spoke to me, not one felt like it fit.

The first week of February found me in desperation mode, if not ‘desperation’, I was at least coming to the realization that I was going to have to settle for something. I was going to start my new job on the 11th, and I thought maybe…just maybe, I could possibly force myself to mature beyond the point of inanimate things ‘speaking’ to me. Maybe I should just buy a car, and be done.

Then fate stepped in…

I needed a large, 4 door, American labeled, business sedan; Chevy Impala, Ford Taurus, Buick anything, and that was going to have to be it. I wanted heated leather seats, satellite radio, in something other than black or white, preferably silver, or champagne gold. I wanted a certain look that said “I want be professional, but I’m here to have a good time.”

Despite all the ‘wants, needs and likes’ I was faced with some simple realities: COBRA insurance payments crippled our single income household, and the State of Missouri’s unemployment checks  didn’t exactly encourage anyone to stay out of work. I was broke, our credit rating had suffered, and I was going to have to finance the purchase at a ridiculous rate. All my wants and likes had to come in at a number that just didn’t support those wants and likes.

I was on my way to a dealership to work out a deal on a black Taurus that was OK…cloth seats, 45,000 miles, and a price that was within budget. It was a nice, clean car. Just as I was leaving the house, I decided to do “one last search” for exactly what I wanted. And as if the Universe were just waiting to reward me for being mature about the situation, I found a silver blue (I call it “Ice Blue”) 2003 Buick LeSabre, leather seats, clean as a whistle, 18,000 miles, single owner, (I think it was a little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays) and it was only 30 miles away, advertised as “Just Listed Today!!” I saw it, I loved it, my kids loved it, and I bought it.

The last stressful decision of unemployment had been made; I was done. I would be getting regular paychecks in a couple of weeks, and we could start buying groceries again. To celebrate, I turned on the furnace, and we spent an evening in our home without jackets and hats, or burning our furniture in the fireplace. The car had nothing, directly, to do with these things, but the car was an ice blue trophy awarded to me and my brood for making it through a very troubling time. How could I not love that car?

In fact, I loved that car so much that even though I was trading it in, and its trade in value had already been negotiated, I still spend $30 at a high end car wash in Lancaster PA to make sure it looked its best when I turned over the keys.

That car kept me safe and comfortable, and warm for about 160,000 business miles over the course of 5 years. It took our family to Mt. Rushmore, to the Outer Banks, to Grandpa’s house, and to our new home in PA.

It was more than just a car. It was a business partner. It was a connector to the people I love. It was a reminder that I’m a survivor.

It was a trophy, an ice blue trophy…

Thanks for reading.

Your comments are always appreciated, please re-post on your Facebook page or forward if you think it’s worthy. You can email me at thelargeman@gmail.com  You can become a fan on Facebook by typing  ‘Fan of the Large Man Chronicles’ in the search box, and then click on the ‘Become a Fan’ button

I was about as uncomfortable as I could ever remember, it was painful to think. It was a Sunday morning in late September, but summer refused to lighten its grip on my Virginia home. At 5:45 in the morning the thermometer was already tickling the 80 degree mark. The air was thick, and wet; with no breeze offered to give any hope for relief. The cicadas usually waited until the heat of the afternoon to start their racket, but I think they must have known that I was hung over and thought it good sport to start the day early and pile on to my misery.

I needed a shower, a toothbrush, a 50 lb. aspirin, and some direction. But at the moment the cola flavored Slurpee was going to have to do. The first pull through that lipstick red straw felt like being kissed by an angel, or this girl I know named Page. The slush took the kitty litter like grit off of my dried out tongue, and the sweetness helped neutralize the foul taste in my mouth.  With each sip, I could feel the icy cold drink hydrating my body…this bordered on rapture.

We were just sitting in my car, waiting for 6:00. I was shirtless and my lower back was sticking to the tan vinyl seats of a 1978 Chevy Monte Carlo, the T-tops were off, and mysteriously missing. I checked twice; not in the back seat, not in the trunk. Where in the hell could they be? I wondered. They’re the size of a sewer cap, and damn near as heavy. How do you lose T-tops? What am I going to do if we have thunderstorms today? Why do these things always happen to me? Oh yeah, never mind.

My best friend, and co-conspirator, was sitting in the passenger seat, snoring almost loud enough to drown out the cicadas. The heat didn’t bother him, the bugs didn’t bother him, and even his snoring wasn’t bothering him. Nothing ever seems to bother him. I was considering hitting him with my tire iron, to see if that would bother him,  when it occurred to me that when I was looking for my T-tops I didn’t remember seeing my tire changing tools, or my spare tire either. I walked to the back of the car, popped the trunk one more time; it was empty, and wet.

I slammed the trunk closed, walked back to the driver’s side door, and slammed it closed too. DJ stirred, looked over at me and shook his head, closed his eyes again and said, “Where’s your shirt man? You can’t go in there without a shirt.”

I didn’t know where that was either.

“I already went in and got this Slurpee.” I said, “They didn’t say anything about it.”

“Well they should. ‘No shoes. No Shirt. NO SERVICE!’ You’re a walking health code violation” He replied, expressionless, “Is it 6:00 yet?”

“10 more minutes. I don’t know why we’re doing this now. We should go back to my place and crash, or I’ll take you home, and you can come back over later. I just need to take some aspirin and sleep.” I protested.

He half laughed while shaking his head again, “It was your idea. If it’s just 10 more minutes we might as well just wait, and not worry about going back out. How long have we been here?”

“Do you know where my T-tops are? Or my spare and my jack?” I asked, ignoring his pointless question.

“You took everything out of the trunk so you could turn it into a mobile cooler. You made me spend thirty dollars for ice, and it didn’t even come close to filling it up. Then you parked the car in the Myers’ garage and it leaked all over their garage floor. The beer stayed cold for maybe 45 minutes. That was the stupidest idea since you had the barnyard party in your basement. (Earlier that same year, I co-hosted a New Year’s Eve party where we filled the basement of our townhouse with about 12 bales of hay. Festive, but not practical. Lots of bugs and critters live in hay bales. Who knew?) Your T-tops, and all your other stuff, are still over at the Myers’ house. We can get it later; we have to help them clean up anyway.”

“Damn.” That was really all I could think of to say.

My Seiko struck 6, so we walked into the 7- Eleven to purchase a case of beer to get us through the day’s schedule of football games. Beer sales were suspended from mid-night to 6:00 AM in Virginia. A couple of hours earlier, I was bragging to the party crowd that the beer wouldn’t last until the wee hours, but the party would. I told everyone that we would have a contingent outside the 7-Eleven waiting for the locks to come off of the beer coolers so we could make our purchase, and continue our celebration…of nothing. The contingent ended up being just me and DJ; our fellow revelers lost their enthusiasm as the night ran on and the beer ran out. Amateurs, I thought.

DJ and I gathered our sundries; one 6 lb. bag of ice, two 12 –packs of Michelob, and a cola Slurpee for DJ; he was admiring the one I had been nursing, and was amazed by its healing powers. I was too, while I’m sure I still looked like the spawn of Wookie and a crack whore; I was starting to feel like I was becoming something that resembled a human. Never under value the medicinal powers of junk food.

A surly clerk with dark, wrinkled skin, yellow eyes, and judgmental body language asked me for an ID, and after his pretend inspection he mumbled, “seventeen dollars and eighty-six cents”. I opened my wallet and found eleven dollars, and as I turned to DJ for the balance, he smiled wide and bright over top of the red straw of his drink. “What? You need more cash?”

Consumer math not being one of my strengths, I replied, “Yeah, I need like five bucks.”

“You need six dollars and eighty-six cents” said the mean guy behind the counter. He was acting very impatient, considering there was no one else in the store. In hind-sight, it would have been more dignified for us to have just robbed the place.

I looked at the clerk, then I looked at DJ, who then…while holding back laughter, looked back at me and said, “You made me spend all my money on ice for your mobile cooler. I don’t have any money left.” He finished his sentence with an immediate biting of his upper lip. This is usually when the fun starts.

When DJ laughs, even mildly, it’s usually quite an eruption; it is an audio-visual experience like few others.  Now, at this particular moment he was knee deep in the realization that this wasn’t amusing to me or the dude behind the counter…therefore, he was struggling. Laughter being held back is difficult for anyone, for DJ, it’s akin to water board torture.

“You’re going to have to put one of the 12-packs back”, sighed Yellow Eyes, “and I’m going to have to adjust my register.”

Now I’m mad, and I see that DJ has turned his back to the situation. Like a disobedient dog, he can’t make eye contact with the source of ire, but unlike that dog, it’s not due to remorse or guilt; it’s because this is simply the funniest thing he has ever witnessed in his twenty-two years. It’s not, but at this moment, it is to DJ…and if he makes eye contact with me, he will lose it. There will be noise, and body spasms, and spilled Slurpee, and these things will feed upon themselves, and fuel more of the same. This condition could last a week, because every time his mind goes back to this moment, he will start the seizure all over again.

He did the only thing he could do…he walked away. He left the store with his unpurchased Slurpee, and walked quickly across the small parking lot, through the heat and humidity, and sat down in my car. As I turned my attention back to the clerk, just before the door closed, I could hear the wailing begin. To the untrained ear, it sounded something like the primal screams of an animal, perhaps an exotic cat, at the height of its mating activity; but to me, it was just DJ…laughing. My head started hurting again. Yellow Eyes said, “You’re paying for that Slurpee.”

“No shit?” OK, here it comes. “Listen, Mr. Personality, I’m gonna leave this stuff here, with my wallet, and I’m gonna go see if I have more cash in my car. I realize that we interrupted your nap, but you are on the clock, and we are customers. I would like to be treated that way.”

As I turned to walk out the door, he called after me, “Hey man, don’t act like I’m not being cool here! I let you in without a shirt!”

I just kept walking, and kept my smart mouth shut. DJ was still in the car, settling down, wiping his eyes. He looked at me, and he started again. “Damn! We are a couple of losers, man” he said through the broken voice of laughter. “Don’t have enough money to buy a case of beer. I don’t know about you, but I’m a week from payday too.”

“I think I still have some money at home, I’ll loan you fifty to get you through. You’ve bailed me out enough times, I probably even owe you fifty bucks. Right now, we gotta dig through the ashtrays and the seats to see if we can come up with seven bucks”.

“We’re gonna dig through an ashtray… for money … to buy beer…at 6-o-clock in the morning…on a Sunday… this is what you’re telling me?” he asked, with disgust (mixed with laughter).

“Yes” was my only reply. In my throbbing head, I was thinking, there is no way I’m gonna let that surly, judgmental, prick make me put that 12 – pack back on the shelf.  Observing this scene through the window of time, this “judgmental prick” was probably well within the boundaries of reasonable behavior; I had no T-tops, no spare tire, no shirt, and no money. The only things I had were a hangover, a hysterical friend, and a screwed up set of values.

My ashtray held eight dollars and thirty-six cents – I could add a bag of chips! I filled my pockets with the change, walked back in, scattered the money across the counter, and paid the man; counting out the pennies first, of course. When I walked back out with our supplies for the day, my laughing, financially strapped friend could do nothing but shake his head. “We are not the people our parents wanted us to be, man”…and he laughed some more. I started the car, and we drove away.

We went back to the party house, helped our friends clean up, found my T-tops and tire stuff, but the shirt was sacrificed to the party gods. My friends remembered that I showed up with a shirt, but it was nowhere to be found.

By noon, we were back in the safe and comfortable, air-conditioned confines of DJ’s basement. We were well provisioned with a half dozen fast food burgers, and a cooler filled with well chilled brew, acquired in part, by the spare change in my ashtray. We watched football until 7:00, and as I was on my way out the door, heading in the general direction of a desperately needed good night’s sleep, two of our favorite lady friends, Tracy and Lisa, cruised up with a large pizza, and a 6-pack.

“DAMN! OK, I’ll stay for one more” I said, “and besides, we have a funny story to tell you.”

Next thing ya know…it was Monday morning, and my 5:45 alarm was buzzing…

…I was about as uncomfortable as I could ever remember, it was painful to think.